


you kissed me like a sunrise

by pirateygoodness



Series: this can’t last forever (kiss me one more time) [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 11:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: A story from a slightly different timeline. The team makes it to Aruba without breaking time, and treats themselves to a nice beach vacation. Sara and Amaya catch feelings. (aka The Fic Formerly Known As Beach Girlfriends)





	1. think we’re overthinking it

**Author's Note:**

> Thaaaank you to falsealarm for beta-reading and goading me into writing this. Titles are all from Carly Rae Jepsen songs, because that was the soundtrack to this fic. Specific songs include: "When I Needed You," "Body Language," "Warm Blood," and "EMOTION."

Mick sets them on a course for Aruba. They make it there in one piece, and after everything that's happened, that feels sort of miraculous. The whole team tumbles out of the Waverider, finding a world of sunshine and sand and air that smells like the ocean. 

Amaya’s never been anywhere like this before, but she falls in love almost immediately. Everything is bright and open, dust-brown and grass-green and the sky a never ending blue. The sky is the best part: it feels exactly the right size. Just as big as she remembers it growing up. 

They land the Waverider in Aruba, cloaking it on a cliff covered in desert scrub, overlooking the ocean. Gideon assures them that this part of the island is nearly always uninhabited, but Amaya hardly believes it. The view is _beautiful._

Mick is the first to mention staying, grumbling something about _accommodations._ Amaya misses most of the conversation, but Mick starts off in one direction and Sara follows him, the two of them speaking heatedly. The team trails behind. Amaya breathes, thinks about the fact that she hasn't spent more than a night off the Waverider since she first stowed away. As comfortable as Gideon makes their bunks, her heart is already racing at the idea of sleeping in a proper bed, in a room that’s planted firmly on the ground. 

She hangs back, sticking close to Jax and the Professor. Nate and Ray are up ahead, and Amaya has no desire to catch up with them. Ever since she broke it off with Nate, he’s taken up the habit of staring at her mournfully - as though the “casual” relationship they had was as uncasual as Amaya had worried. 

They hike along the cliff face, through rocky, half-desert scrub. Gradually, the rocks give way to sand, soft and so fine-looking that Amaya has to resist the urge to stop and run her fingers through it. They turn a corner, and then there’s ocean: vast and glass-blue, endless right up to the horizon. 

“Careful, someone might catch you staring,” Jax says. 

He’s grinning at her. Amaya beams in reply, only slightly embarrassed at how easy it is to read her, right now. She must look starstruck, gasping at every new plant, every new bird. It feels almost like that time she went back to the Cretaceous era; everything foreign and fascinating and she can’t quite understand why nobody else seems as delighted. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

Jax shrugs. “In movies, maybe. I’ve never been to the Caribbean, though.” 

She stumbles as they make their way down a sandy incline, grabs for his arm. “It’s wonderful,” she says. It falls short of what she really means, but it’s close enough that Jax seems to understand. 

At the bottom of the hill there’s a beach, with a series of little cabins dotted along the edge farthest from the water. One of them seems to be some kind of office, and Amaya and Jax hang back with the rest of the team while Sara and Mick have a brief debate, first with each other, then with the man working at the office. They end up renting three little houses: two for the boys, and Sara and Amaya in their own. 

Amaya’s not sure where the money comes from - it’s not as though time travel is a paying job - but if that is an issue, she won't be the one to bring it up. She'll take as many nights here as she can get. 

+

The little cottage she rents - _they_ rent - is lovely. It’s not much; just a couple of rooms and a small kitchen and common area between them, but it’s more than Amaya and Sara need. There are windows on every side, and Amaya can’t wait to open them, to let the salt air curl inside so that everything smells like the sea. 

She’s missed this. She’s missed the outdoors, and the freedom of being able to escape into it whenever the whim takes her. They’re here for seven whole days (barring any time crises, of course), and that much time with unfettered access to the natural world is exactly what Amaya needs. 

She’s not trying very hard to hide her excitement; Sara picks up on it immediately. They’ve paired off now, walking slowly toward the cottage they’re sharing. Amaya’s boots keep sinking into the sand, sliding her back a half-step with every movement. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Sara asks. Her tone is friendly, a warmth to her voice that reminds Amaya of slow, secret kisses in her bunk, the ones they’re both pretending never happened. 

Amaya takes a breath, tries to focus on Sara’s words and not the birds wheeling above them, the feel of soft sand underneath her boots. She can hardly wait for the chance to walk barefoot and let the sand run between her toes. “What do you mean?”

Sara shrugs. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much, before.” 

Amaya’s heart is light, buoyed by all the beauty around her, and it makes her confident enough to joke in reply. “A true warrior never smiles.” 

Sara actually laughs. Amaya turns to look, and she’s struck by the way the wind is whipping Sara’s hair around her shoulders, tousling it into knots and sweeping it across her face. From here, the sun is catching all of the gold tones to Sara, making her shine. She looks beautiful, and Amaya does her best not to notice it. 

“I missed this,” Amaya says, when Sara’s finished laughing and her heart’s finished fluttering at the sight of her. “Being outside, feeling close to nature. I love being with the team, but I’m not built to stay indoors for too long.” 

They reach the cabin door and Sara pauses on the threshold, giving her a thoughtful look. As if she’s learned something about Amaya that she hadn’t known, before. As if that’s important to her, somehow. 

Then she shakes her head, forcibly breaking the moment, and strides past Amaya into the living room. 

There are two bedrooms, and Sara pauses again, turns to look at Amaya. “Do you care which room you take?”

Amaya shrugs. As far as she can tell, the rooms are nearly identical. One has a slightly better view of the ocean, the other a corner with two windows ideal for getting a cross-breeze through the cabin. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. 

“Okay,” Sara says. She chooses the room to her right, leaving Amaya the other. 

Amaya wanders into the room, sets her bag on the bed. She doesn’t have much; the Waverider is a short walk away, and there’s not much she needs. The next thing she does is open the window. She missed windows so _much_ , and the ability to open the window here and leave it open, to smell the sea and hear the squabble of gulls overhead, is grounding. She lingers, leaning against the sill, watching the birds wheel overhead. 

She’s not sure how much time passes before she can bring herself to look away, but she’s so absorbed that she starts when she sees Sara loitering in the doorway, arms crossed. There’s that hint of something different to her expression, again - a new softness around the edges of her smile. “Hey,” Sara says, her voice gentle. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“It’s alright,” Amaya says. 

Sara fidgets, wrapping her fingers around her forearms. Amaya can’t help but notice the way the movement is echoed in her biceps, muscles shifting under her skin. Her heart starts to thrum. She tries not to examine the reasons for it too closely. “I was just going to go back to the Waverider to get a few things. If you wanted to -“

“That’s alright,” Amaya replies. 

“Okay,” Sara says. She uncrosses her arms, taps her palm against the doorframe. “I’ll, um. See you soon, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Amaya says. “Soon.” 

Sara leaves. Amaya sits on the bed in her room, trying not to listen to the sounds of Sara walking up the beach, trying not to think about the fact that _Sara’s bed_ is just a few feet away from her own. They’ve shared space before - it’s hard to live on the Waverider and _not_ live on top of everyone else - but being a room away feels much more intimate, somehow. 

She thinks, for a moment, about leaving. Not _hiding_ , just - giving Sara some space, making sure that it’s not uncomfortable for her to be in such close quarters with Amaya. But she’s not sure where she’d go, and before she can think it through much farther, she’s saved by a knock at the cabin door and the obvious sound of Raymond, _yoo-hoo_ -ing from the other side. 

 

Ray takes her on a walk along the beach. Nathaniel isn't with him - she doesn't know what he's up to, but she's glad for the break from his company, at least for a while. 

Ray is barefoot, carrying shoes and socks in one hand. Amaya joins him, walks down to the water with warm sand sliding between her toes. The sand is fine and soft against her skin, and she has to resist the urge to bend down and run her hands through it. 

Neither of them are dressed for swimming, but Ray seems content to wander along the water's edge. He stays on the dry sand away from the water line, laughs kindly as Amaya meanders calf-deep into the surf. “We should go snorkeling tomorrow,” he says. 

The word sounds ridiculous, even more so with all of Ray’s earnestness behind it. “Snorkeling?”

“Yeah, it’s like swimming, but you have this special thing, called a snorkel, so you can breathe - it’s a great way to look at the ocean. You can see fish, and reefs, and all kinds of interesting marine life.” 

She’s going to have to ask Gideon exactly what a _snorkel_ is before she agrees to anything, but just the idea of it makes her heart sing. “That sounds like fun,” she says. 

“It _is_ ,” Ray says. He tells her a story about a time when he went snorkeling on a family trip, when he was a boy. Amaya lets the words wash over her, half-listening. She's thinking about Aruba, about the feel of the ocean against her skin and all of the possibilities below the surface. 

 

By the time Amaya gets back to the cabin, it’s late, the sun starting to hang low in the sky. 

She’s hungry, and she can’t recall how many hours have passed since they left the Waverider - it was morning, for them, but she doesn’t know if it was also morning in Aruba, 2017, when they landed. Her body is thinking about dinner, though, which probably means the others are feeling the same. It occurs to her that someone should decide if Ray’s chore wheel is going to apply off-ship, before they all get too grouchy to cook. 

There’s a figure on the couch when she walks in, and it takes Amaya a few, heart-stopping seconds to register it as Sara - Sara who is absolutely alive, but sleeping like the dead. She’s half-seated, half-slumped across the back of the couch, a pillow clutched to her chest. The overall impression is of someone who fell asleep on accident. It occurs to Amaya that she hasn’t actually seen Sara take a break since they destroyed the Legion and left the Somme; looping backwards through time probably doesn't leave a lot of room for rest. 

Sleeping like this, Sara looks younger, somehow, and less battle-worn. Amaya doesn’t think she ever asked how old Sara was; looking at her now she realizes that she can’t be much older than Amaya herself. The thought does something to her, sparking butterflies in the pit of her stomach that she tries to ignore. 

Sara sighs in her sleep, settles lower into the couch. She leans forward. Amaya's never thought of Sara as someone who _snuggles_ , but there aren't many other words to describe the way she works her way closer to the pillow in her arms. 

Amaya feels like she shouldn’t be seeing this. Sara wouldn’t want Amaya to see her so unguarded. 

There’s a blanket on the back of the couch. Amaya doesn’t know if Sara’s cold or not, doesn’t know if it’s her place to take care of Sara if she is. But somehow, she finds herself gently shaking the blanket out, folding it in half and draping it across Sara’s shoulders. Sara sighs again, stirs just long enough to grab a fistful of blanket and shoulder her way further into the couch. 

Those butterflies grow a bit more insistent. 

Amaya retreats to her room, settling on the bed with her latest book - one of Mr. Tolkien’s novels, at Ray’s insistence that _everyone with any literary sense ever_ would enjoy something called _The Hobbit_. She leaves the bedroom door open, just enough that she can keep an eye on Sara, on the rise and fall of her shoulders as she rests. 

 

It’s an hour or so later when they’re both startled by Mick’s voice - first from the beach, and then at the cabin door, accompanied by a knock. “Hey, ladies. Are you coming for dinner, or not?” 

There’s a slight lightness to his voice, a half-tone shift away from his usual gruff demeanour, and Amaya can’t help but laugh as she sets her book aside. She’s already across the cabin and at the door by the time Sara stirs on the couch, swipes a hand across her eyes and murmurs, “Mick, what the fuck?” 

Amaya opens the door to Mick, a smile - maybe closer to a grimace - on his face and a six-pack of beer in his hand. Behind him, she can see a roaring fire set on the beach. “Dinner?” she asks. 

Mick laughs, gesturing to the fire behind him. “Dinner,” he says. 

Amaya can’t help but laugh in reply. For all that Mick loves to watch things burn, it looks like a proper bonfire, one that will settle into something perfect for cooking before long. 

She goes down to dinner, barefoot. She’s flirting with the idea of never wearing shoes again. Ray has potatoes and onions, and Mick’s brought hamburgers, and after a brief squabble over cooking techniques they manage to collaborate. 

Amaya eats with the rest of the team, lingers well after supper with her feet in the warm sand, sea air all around. 

As the sun sets, it brings a slight chill to the air, a bite that draws them all toward the fire as the heat of the day slowly dissipates. It reminds her of home. 

Amaya sits, balanced on an old piece of driftwood as a seat, with Sara sitting next to her. The boys are across the embers from them - Ray and Jax arguing about technology, while Nate and Mick chime in for and against. 

Sara’s been quiet, tonight. At first, Amaya had assumed she was tired; she’d stumbled down to the fire fresh from her nap, still yawning. 

There’s a gust of wind from across the water, cool and sharp, and they shiver as a collective. Sara slides toward Amaya, leaning against her shoulder. “You alright?” Amaya asks.

“Yeah,” Sara replies. She’s resting her elbows on her knees and her eyes are trained on the last of the fire, pensive. 

“You don’t like it here,” Amaya says, half-statement, half-question. 

Sara shrugs. “I’m not the biggest fan of islands,” she says. 

Sara isn’t looking at her. She’s still watching the fire with half-focused eyes, hands fidgeting. “Why is that?” Amaya asks.

Sara turns, breaking her gaze away from the fire to look Amaya in the eyes. She shrugs, her shoulder bumping Amaya’s side, and gives a cavalier smile as she says, “I had a bad experience. Haven’t really been a fan since.” 

The way she says it sounds like the ending to a much, much longer story, but Amaya knows better than to push. “I didn’t know that about you.” 

Sara shrugs again, turns away. “I don’t talk about it much.” 

One of the few remaining logs in the fire cracks, collapsing into the embers in a shower of sparks. Amaya and Sara both watch it as though nothing in the world could be more interesting. 

“I’m sorry,” Amaya says. “Whatever happened, I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

Something about Sara’s expression softens. Her mouth twists its way into a smile, but there’s a sadness to Sara that Amaya’s never seen before. It makes something in Amaya ache. She’d never thought much about Sara’s past, about who she was before she joined the Waverider, and that suddenly feels like an omission. “Thank you,” Sara says, rough-voiced. 

Amaya doesn’t say anything in reply. But she shifts her weight, leaning more fully against Sara’s side. Sara leans back, warm and solid against her shoulder, while they watch the fire die.


	2. what if i turn the lights right down

When Amaya wakes the next morning, she spends a few moments staring at the ceiling, disoriented. She’s in an unfamiliar bed, and there’s a breeze moving across her face, in from the open window. Eventually, the events of yesterday come back to her and it sinks in that they really are staying in Aruba, taking a real vacation for the first time in ages. She rolls over and stretches out diagonally across the bed, arms and legs spreading as far as they’ll go. 

She’s not sure of the time, but she hears movement from the living room, and the smell of fresh coffee - the real stuff, not instant, not from a fabricator. Amaya’s never really had an American-style home like this, before - the JSA training headquarters was the closest thing - but somehow the smell of coffee makes this cabin feel cozy, and almost like one. 

It doesn’t occur to her to be self conscious as she slides out of bed in her pyjamas. She’s in shorts and a tank top, and it feels like she’s not wearing much more than lingerie but she’s already triple-checked with Gideon that this is appropriate sleepwear for 2017. She stretches again, rising up on her toes in the doorway, reaching up towards the top of the door frame. “Mmm, I smell coffee,” she mumbles. 

Sara’s in the kitchen, her back to Amaya, but at the sound of her voice she stops mid-pour and sets down her cup. She turns to face Amaya, and for a split second there’s an odd look on her face, before she forces her gaze back toward the kitchen counter. “Hey,” she says. 

Her voice is a bit rough around the edges, and she looks - _rumpled_ is the only word Amaya can think: her t-shirt wrinkled from sleep and soft cotton trousers resting askew on her hips. Her hair is messy, tied back in a loose bun, small sections falling out around her face and nape. Amaya is suddenly struck by the fact that she’s never seen Sara look quite this _soft_ before. There are no sharp edges here, no angles or concealed weapons, and that’s a rare thing. She’s staring, but after a few moments she realizes that Sara’s staring, too, looking at Amaya with something Amaya can't quite name. 

Sara’s expression is close to - something. Something Amaya’s seen before, on the Waverider, those times they’ve been alone and working out tension. It sets emotion fluttering under Amaya’s ribs, dangerously earnest, and she forces herself to look away away. 

“Good morning,” Amaya says. She tries to school her voice into neutrality, but she’s only just woken up and her throat betrays her, sending soft, breathless words into the room. 

“Yeah. Do you, um. Do you want some?” Sara says, catches herself. “Coffee, I mean.” 

“Sure,” Amaya says. “If there’s extra.” 

Entering the kitchen feels almost like an imposition, but she manages, closing the distance between them as Sara focuses on the coffee, splitting the pot she’s made into two equal portions. 

Amaya takes her cup, wrapping both hands around the mug as far as they’ll go, and breathes in deeply. She takes her first sip while she’s still standing, one hip resting against the kitchen counter. Sara’s standing beside her, eyes smiling over the rim of her mug. “Good?” Sara asks, low-voiced. 

“Perfect,” Amaya says. “You’ve been hiding a secret talent from us.” 

“Making coffee?”

“Mmhmm.” 

Sara’s expression softens into a shy sort of smile. The bottom drops out of Amaya’s stomach, turns to butterflies, in reply. “Yeah, well,” she says. “I don’t want to get stuck making the good stuff for everyone.”

Amaya laughs, feels her cheeks burn. “You’d never have time to captain.” 

Now it’s Sara’s turn to lean away, to look back slightly red-faced. She bites her lip, eyes searching as if she’s planning to speak before she seems to think better of it and turns back to her cup. 

“Are you hungry?” Amaya asks. “I can cook.” 

“I know it’s your turn, but I'm pretty sure the chore wheel doesn’t apply this week,” Sara says. 

“No, I mean - I don’t mind. You made coffee, after all.” Amaya says. She’s stumbling, suddenly worried about sounding too earnest. She realizes now that she can’t remember Sara ever eating breakfast with the team; there’s a chance Sara doesn’t want her cooking at all. 

“Well, there’s also a chance we don’t have any food. Unless you went shopping when I wasn’t looking, yesterday.”

Amaya laughs. “You may be right,” she says. “It’s amazing how easy it is to get used to being able to fabricate whatever we need.” 

Sara shrugs, finishes the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “I can go into town, pick something up the old fashioned, 2017 way.” 

She’s half-looking at Amaya as she speaks - looking _near_ Amaya, eyes trained somewhere between Amaya’s face and the floor, with distance in her gaze that Amaya doesn’t quite know how to read. “Do you want company?” Amaya asks. 

Sara meets Amaya’s eyes briefly, before letting her gaze drift back downward. Amaya looks down at herself, realizes that her tank top is riding up a little, exposing skin at her belly. There’s a chance that’s where Sara’s been looking, and something about that makes Amaya flustered as she tugs her hem back into place. Something about the movement breaks Sara’s distraction and she looks back up, shakes her head. “No, it’s okay,” Sara says. “It’s not far.” 

Amaya hesitates, trying to decide if she should insist. But before she can come to a decision, Sara’s half-dressed and ready to leave. When Amaya finally reacts, Sara’s already bracing herself against the wall, one foot in the air as she pulls on her sneaker. “You don’t have to -“ Amaya starts, but Sara waves her away. 

“It’s fine,” she says, one hand already on the door. “I could use the walk, anyway.” 

 

Sara returns a half hour later, carrying shopping bags. Amaya’s coffee is long since finished, and she’s moved to the couch, curled up with her book. She’s invested in the story - Ray hadn’t mentioned that there were _dragons_ \- and it takes a few moments for her to bring her focus back to the here and now.

Sara’s expression goes soft as she takes in Amaya on the couch, knees curled up underneath her. “I, um,” she starts. “I didn’t know what you liked for breakfast.” 

“Oh,” Amaya says. It’s obvious, in hindsight - Sara is always too preoccupied for breakfast, working out something with Gideon while the rest of them eat. Of course she wouldn’t know what Amaya liked to make. “I’m sure it’s fine.” 

Sara doesn’t reply, except to start unpacking her shopping. Amaya moves to join her, leaning against the kitchen counter a few feet away. Sara unpacks eggs, butter, peppers, an onion and cheese, but also bread and coffee and melon and peanut butter. It’s enough food for a week of breakfasts, and Sara makes a face as she surveys her purchases, like she’s just realizing that herself. 

“You don’t have to cook,” Sara finally says. “If you don’t want to.” 

“I want to,” Amaya replies. 

Sara turns to look at her. She’s only been gone a short while, but Amaya would be willing to bet money that she’s got more freckles than she did before she left; dusting her cheeks and shoulders. Amaya thinks, unexpectedly, about what it would be like to kiss them. 

The corners of Sara’s eyes crinkle and suddenly she’s grinning, a smile that Amaya would almost call flirtatious if she didn’t know better. “What’s on the menu?” Sara asks. 

Amaya shrugs. “How do you like your eggs?”

Sara laughs. 

Amaya stares. There’s a miscommunication, she’s sure of it - some turn of phrase or line from a movie made thirty years after her time that makes the question hilarious. She keeps bumping up against this; like missing a step climbing stairs. “What?” she asks. She’s getting better at recovering, the more that it happens. 

“It’s a line people used to say, when they were - “ Sara frowns, searching for the word. 

“- courting?” Amaya supplies. She knows exactly what Sara’s getting at - not courting, _the other thing_ \- but a part of her wants to be purposely obtuse. 

“Something like that,” Sara drawls. “Where they thought they might share breakfast with that person the next day.” 

Somehow, Sara _saying_ it makes Amaya feel flustered, even though it's the answer she expected. She tries to regain her balance, pushes back. “So how do you like them?” she asks. 

Sara holds her gaze for a long moment. There’s a familiar gleam in her eyes, a look that tells Amaya what she’s thinking about and sends Amaya's thoughts to the same place. Because they’ve _done_ that - the sex, not the sleepover or the ensuing breakfast - and they were both good at it, and now they’re all alone in a small cabin with two perfectly serviceable beds. Sara stares for long enough that Amaya feels her heart start to flutter, first with uncertainty and then with anticipation. 

Sara is the one to break the moment, dragging her attention toward the counter with a businesslike cough. “Over easy,” she says. “Or whatever you feel like making.” 

It’s only then that Amaya realizes she’s been biting her own lip. She releases it, running her tongue along the sore spot from her teeth, and looks at the ingredients in front of her. “Do you like omelettes?

“Yeah,” Sara says. She looks up at Amaya like she’s thinking of something else entirely. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Out of the kitchen, then,” Amaya says. 

She moves into the space Sara had occupied, finds a passably-sharp knife and a cutting board and gets to work. She allows herself to get lost in the details - finding the salt, chopping the onion, discovering that the pepper Sara brought her looks like it might be sweet but is in fact _very_ hot. She heats the butter, lets the onions start to cook with a few slivers of pepper. 

“Smells good,” Sara says. She’s out of the kitchen but just barely; leaning over the back of the couch to watch. Amaya wonders if she’s been watching the whole time.

“Thanks.” 

Amaya turns back to the stove, shakes the pan to brown everything just right and adds the eggs. She needs to be focused on breakfast, but part of her can’t help but notice - or think she notices - the feel of Sara’s gaze on her back. She resists the urge to fuss with her shorts, make sure they’re covering her properly. 

The omelette folds perfectly, cooks all the way through: it’s a lucky morning. She cuts it in half, plates each half with slices of bread and butter on the side. 

There’s a small table in the corner of the kitchen; barely big enough to play a game of cards, but the only real surface for eating in the cabin. Amaya takes her plate to it, and sits. Sara stands in the kitchen for a long moment, holding her plate. With Amaya sitting at the table, her knees are almost touching the other side; Sara wouldn’t be able to join her without their legs pressing together.

(Amaya thinks about the prospect: sitting at the table with Sara’s thigh trapped between her knees. The cabin suddenly feels very warm and very small.) 

Sara takes her plate to the couch, curling up with her legs tucked underneath her. She’s facing Amaya, watching her from a safe distance as they both eat. 

There's a knock on the cabin door. Neither of them are really in a position to stand, both half-finished eating. Sara calls out, barely makes it through _come in_ before the door is open and Nate and Ray are tumbling into their cabin. They seem too big for the space somehow, and they both crowd together awkwardly, as though they’re intruding. “I can’t believe you guys are still in your jammies,” Nate says. He’s looking mostly at Sara, pointedly avoiding Amaya’s gaze. That’s perfectly fine with her. 

Nate and Ray don’t look much more dressed; they’re wearing brightly coloured shorts, so low-slung that Amaya can’t help but assume they’re not wearing anything else underneath them. “We’re wearing more than you,” Amaya points out. She tries to use her kindest voice, but Nate’s face still falls just a little. 

“We’re going swimming,” Ray says, by way of explanation. Then, noticing the kitchen and Amaya’s half-finished breakfast: “Aw, you guys made omelettes without me?” 

Sara smiles as she finishes her last bite of breakfast. Around it, she says, “Don’t look at me, Amaya cooked.” 

Ray sighs. “I love omelettes.” 

Amaya laughs. She doesn’t mean to, but Ray’s pulling a face: mock-disappointment, barely containing his enthusiasm over going to swim in the ocean. She understands the feeling, and it makes her bold. “Should have picked your housemates more carefully, then,” she says. 

Sara’s cheeks flush and she smiles at Amaya, conspiratorial and pleased in a way that Amaya feels in her belly. 

 

She does go swimming with Ray, after she’s finished eating breakfast and Sara has started in on the dishes. 

Modern swimsuits are even worse than modern sleepwear, and Amaya spends a solid ten minutes staring at what Gideon fabricated for her back on the ship. She remembers checking the style and the fabricator settings twice. It’s not the cut, necessarily - everything is covered, and Gideon chose a style that’s not too far from the one-piece suits she remembers from JSA training. It’s the fabric that gets her. The material is something stretchy, a technical fabric that Gideon assured her would dry quickly and stay light in the water. But putting it on, she hardly feels like she’s wearing anything at all. 

She takes her towel and her book - she’s only got fifty pages left in _The Hobbit_ and she’s sure she’ll have time to read down on the beach - and steps out into the common area, hoping Sara won’t be around. 

Of course Sara’s still there. 

Amaya hadn’t heard her leave, there was no reason for her not to still be in the cabin. She’s lounging on the couch, fidgeting with a butter knife as though she wishes it was something sharper, twirling it around her knuckles. Her hand stops moving when she notices Amaya. 

Sara looks at Amaya long enough that she has to resist the urge to fidget with her swimming costume. She’s not ashamed of her body, but something about being this exposed in front of _Sara_ makes her shy. She waits for seconds that seem to stretch for ages before Sara pulls a face and speaks. “You’re going swimming?”

“Yeah, I thought I would.” 

“You look, um. You look really good.” Sara delivers the compliment toward Amaya’s middle, still not quite looking at her. Somehow, her distractibility feels like a compliment. 

“Thank you,” Amaya says. “Are you sure this is what people wear in 2017? These swimming costumes are so _light_. I might as well go swimming naked.” 

Sara blinks and makes a point of looking right at Amaya’s face. “No, it’s exactly right. I could see if I have a cover-up, or something, if you wanted.” 

Amaya’s not entirely sure what kind of garment Sara even _means_ , but the idea of something to make her feel a little less exposed is welcome. “Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.” 

Sara stands, goes to her room for a short while before she returns with something sort of filmy that goes on like a robe, with wide, short sleeves like a Japanese kimono. She holds it out, and Amaya steps into it obligingly. The fabric is light, almost cool against her skin, brushing pleasingly against her thighs. As it settles around Amaya’s shoulders, Sara releases the garment, and her hand brushes across Amaya’s shoulder, feather-light. 

The touch hits Amaya like electricity, sending shivery sparks across her shoulders and back, landing lower down. She doesn’t think Sara’s touched her since the Waverider, since the last time they had sex, and her body remembers. She crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

Sara smile is crooked and a little shy. “Anytime.” 

 

The sun outside the cabin is warm and glorious and it wraps Amaya up like an embrace. She’s suddenly glad for the lightness of what she’s wearing, marvels at the way Sara’s robe floats around her but doesn’t let her overheat. She can see Nate at the water’s edge, soaking wet and shining in the sun. He really is a beautiful man, and she's still able to appreciate that despite the way things ended.

As she walks toward him, Ray emerges from the water. He’s wearing a contraption over his face, an oversized mask with a tube attached to it, one end in his mouth. He spits it out and grins, waving at Amaya. 

“What on earth is that?” she asks, once he’s within earshot. 

Ray laughs, and lifts the mask off of his head, holding it out for Amaya to see. “It’s for snorkeling,” he says. “I got one for you, too, if you want.” 

She’s dubious about the mask and the rubber tube. Putting the snorkel into her mouth feels like breathing through a straw, and the air inside tastes faintly chemical. But when she gets into the water with everything on, following Ray's lead, her doubts disappear. 

The ocean floor is _beautiful_. Ray swims with her to a little cove with hundreds of beautiful, jewel-coloured fish, dancing in schools near the ocean floor. They alternate between bobbing their heads into the water and surfacing to laugh, to point out the different fish they can find. He names some of them, and she can recognize a few, but there are dozens more that she’s never seen and it makes her heart sing. 

More than once, she lets her hands drift to her totem as she swims. She wouldn’t use it like this, for her own pleasure, but she daydreams about what it would be like to not need a mask and a snorkel, to swim, and swim, and swim. 

She spends hours in the water - some of it looking at nature with Ray, some of it having mock-races out to the buoy at the edge of the beach with Nate and Jefferson. By the time she makes it back to land she’s pleasantly worn out, ready for a break. 

Sara’s there when she emerges, sitting cross-legged near everyone’s things with her own book and a pair of sunglasses. She’s not dressed for swimming, instead wearing little shorts and a tank top that scarcely covers more. Amaya’s eye is drawn to the length of her legs, the way that the muscles in her arms stand out, betraying her strength. 

It’s hard not to stare as she relaxes onto her own towel. She’d planned to let her body dry in the sun; still wants to do just that. But Sara sitting there, noticing her, makes her feel slightly shy about it. 

“Having fun?” Sara asks. 

“There are so many _fish_ ,” Amaya says in reply. She feels a bit self-conscious, after she’s spoken. A part of her worries that she’s been too earnest. “I had no idea.” 

Sara gives her a soft, friendly sort of smile. “I’m glad,” she says, before turning back to her book. 

Amaya picks up her own, digs into the ending of _The Hobbit_. After a while, Nate and Ray join them, and Amaya spends the afternoon half-listening to them argue over which of Mr. Tolkien’s books is the best one, half-dozing in the sand. 

+

After a couple of days, they sink into a pattern. Amaya spends her mornings with Sara, drinking coffee and eating breakfast together. Evenings are for the whole team, and Mick has yet to grow tired of being able to light a bonfire every night. 

Their third evening in Aruba, he brings a case of beer to share. Everyone partakes, slowly growing red-faced and clumsy. Nate, Raymond, and Jefferson convince Martin to play a game involving empty cups and a ping pong ball, and Amaya watches, trying to guess at the rules. They seem to change with every round; Amaya’s wondering if the game has rules at all, or if it’s simply a pretext to allow them to drink to excess. 

Amaya’s never liked alcohol much. She knows how to drink it, of course - one doesn’t make it to the front lines of a world war without learning how to handle a little whiskey - but it’s not something she seeks out on her own. 

She drinks one beer, to be polite, then another. She feels her cheeks grow warm, hears her laugh come more easily than it should. If Rex were here, he’d be laughing, teasing her about how she doesn’t know how to handle her liquor. 

Her lips are tingling, half-numb, and she can’t stop running her fingers across them, checking to make sure they’re still there. Mick catches her checking, laughs his big, boisterous laugh. “You’re drunk, kiddo,” he says, not unkindly. 

“I am not,” she retorts. It’s an effort to keep her speech clear but she manages, swaying gently. “Sara can vouch for me.”   
Sara’s beside her, red-faced. Amaya’s lost track of how many drinks she’s had - she wasn’t really keeping track - but it’s nearly as many as Mick. “I can,” she says, slinging her arm around Amaya’s shoulders. “She’s doing great, Mick. I’ll take care of her.” 

Mick makes a face, says, “I bet you will.”

Amaya knows there’s a reply, something sharp with a bit of a warning in it, because Mick backs off, goes back to watching the fire burn. She doesn’t remember the words of it, though, because Sara’s got an arm around her and it’s making Amaya’s whole body shivery. Her arm is just so _warm_ , is the thing. Sara’s skin is bare against her shoulders, touch interrupted only by the straps of Amaya’s sundress. She thinks she really might be drunk, because her brain can’t stop focusing on how much she loves the feeling of Sara’s skin. 

Somehow - despite not liking beer that much - a third drink appears in Amaya’s hand, the bottle cool against her palm. She fidgets with the label at the bottle neck, tries not to lean into Sara too obviously. 

Sara, for her part, doesn’t take her arm back once Mick moves away. She leaves it there, and after a while, her fingertips start tracing idle shapes across Amaya’s deltoid. It feels _nice_ , shivery-nice and warm-between-her-thighs nice and Amaya laughs her way closer to Sara’s side. 

The sun has long since set, but now that the fire is dying a little, the boys have run out of light for their game. Martin had insisted on putting himself to bed several rounds ago, but Nate and Ray are still playing, making jokes back and forth with Jefferson. On her other side, Sara’s saying something to Mick, and Amaya keeps half-listening to both conversations, picking up threads and losing them every time Sara shifts. 

She doesn’t remember what anyone talks about, but she does remember the way that Sara’s arm slides from around Amaya’s shoulders and relaxes down to her waist. She feels the way Sara’s fingertips tickle at her ribs, every so often, when she flexes her hands to make a point or when the wind blows cool around them. 

The boys head to bed when the fire is nearly embers; then they’re three. Mick’s eyes slide from the fire to Sara and back again, taking in Amaya on the way. “You girls should head off to bed,” he says. “You look sleepy.” 

Sara makes a noise, like she’s about to protest. Amaya feels her head turn, feels fingertips drum across her ribs. “Yeah,” Sara says. “Yeah, alright.” 

There’s a softness to her voice that’s unusual, that curls around Amaya’s heart, somehow. “I’ll keep an eye on the fire,” Mick replies. 

Sara’s arm disappears from Amaya’s waist, and Amaya shivers her way upright, suddenly cold from the lack of contact. “Come on,” Sara says. Amaya doesn’t ever think she’s heard her sound so gentle. 

It’s a little strange, not having Sara’s arm around her, as she stands and finds her feet on the sand. Amaya feels it like an echo, phantom warmth around her waist. She wonders if Sara feels it in her arm, an answering absence. 

Amaya follows Sara back to the cabin a pace behind. The sand feels trickier to navigate, somehow, her feet having to curl into it with deliberateness to keep her upright. So: three drinks may have been more than she needed. 

As they walk, Amaya takes the opportunity to look at Sara: the way she half-glows in the moonlight, now that Amaya’s eyes have adjusted. She takes in the shape of her shoulders, the strength of her arms, her hands. Sara’s hands are _beautiful_ , full of stories and strength. Amaya thinks about what it would be like to hold one in her own. 

Sara opens the cabin door, and Amaya follows. Sara’s facing her, the cabin dark around them save the moonlight filtering in through the windows. There’s something about the way Sara’s watching her; as though she doesn’t quite want to go back to her own room. _Lingering_ , that’s the word. “I should go to bed,” Sara says, whisper-soft. 

Amaya smiles, and Sara watches it with interest, her tongue flicking out to wet her lower lip. “I guess I should, too.” 

Sara reaches out, brushes her fingers across Amaya’s forearm. It’s a _good_ touch, just the right amount of contact to raise goosebumps and Amaya’s had just enough to drink that the feeling makes her gasp. Sara’s eyes grow a little darker. “You’re pretty,” Sara says. 

Amaya stammers, suddenly tongue-tied. “Thank you,” she manages.

Sara’s face suddenly seems very close. Amaya feels touch against her chin - Sara’s fingers, urging her mouth upward. Amaya feels like her skin’s humming all over, buzzing with anticipation. Sara kisses her once, mouth soft and deliberate. Amaya feels it like electricity, like butterflies, like every tortured simile she’s ever read come to life. She responds in kind, kissing into Sara’s mouth, tongue tentative against her lower lip. 

It’s a very, very good kiss. 

Sara pulls away with an odd look on her face, half-stunned. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I should go.” 

Amaya hardly has time to react before Sara’s gone, her bedroom door closed and Amaya standing in the living room, dazed and alone. 

She goes to bed and lays awake for hours, her heart fluttering too much for her to sleep. She keeps thinking about Sara's kiss, about the feel of it, her thoughts a cycle that keeps her awake for what feels like hours. 

She falls asleep late, her fingertips pressed against her own mouth.


	3. warm blood, underneath my skin

Amaya wakes to the sun, a little too bright through her window. She feels thirsty, a little dizzy, but otherwise quite well. 

Her bedroom door is closed; she doesn’t remember leaving it that way when she went to bed. On the other side, she can hear the sounds of Sara waking up, can smell fresh coffee in the kitchen. 

She rolls over, ready to get out of bed and join her, when the full events of the evening before come flooding back. The kiss is a visceral memory, and thinking about it gives Amaya a belly full of mixed emotions; desire and worry and confusion chief among them. 

The door is closed because Sara wants it to be. 

She reaches for the book on her nightstand: _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , this time. Now seems as good a time as any to begin. 

Amaya reads for as long as she can; at least a hundred pages. She reads until the demands of her body mean she can no longer lay in bed, and the sounds from the kitchen have stopped. 

When she opens the door, there’s coffee made and a cup waiting for her, but Sara is nowhere to be seen. 

She makes her own breakfast - toast and jam, with a little melon on the side - and eats alone. 

+

Amaya allows herself the luxury of a slow morning. It isn’t - she’s not _sulking_ , but the events of last night and the events of this morning have left her in the mood for solitude. She decides to stay in with her book, starting on the couch and ending on the bed, lounging on top of the sheets. 

She makes it a good part of the way through _Fellowship_ before she looks up to see Sara in the doorway, one hip resting against the doorframe. She’s lingering, in a way that would be casual if it weren’t for the fact that she’s fidgeting with her hands. If it weren’t for the way that she looks at Amaya like she feels a little guilty over the night before. 

Amaya doesn’t speak. She does sit up, sets her book aside to keep her place. 

Sara doesn’t speak either. She moves towards her in a few quick strides before she pulls Amaya into a kiss, quick and searing. “There,” she says. Amaya can feel Sara’s words against her mouth. “No big deal.” 

“Of course not,” Amaya says. 

In a way, it’s not. It’s not really their first time; they’ve kissed before. They’ve done far more than kiss, before, but all of that was on the Waverider and Aruba feels different. Kissing Sara here feels like it’s separate, part of a world that exists outside time travel and heroes and villains. 

In Aruba, it doesn’t seem like it’d be a big deal if they kissed again. It seems only natural to close the space, to learn how Sara’s mouth tastes when she’s been out in the sun and the sea air makes everything taste of salt. 

Sara’s standing with her legs against the edge of the bed, inside the space between Amaya’s knees. She’s still so close, still so _pretty_ and Amaya is still fluttering over how good Sara’s mouth tastes. She wants to kiss Sara again.

(If she’s being honest with herself, she wants to kiss Sara again more than once; wants to kiss Sara for hours, until it truly doesn’t feel like a big deal at all that they’re kissing.) 

Amaya’s hands are on Sara’s hips. She doesn’t know when she put them there, but there they are: resting gently against the curve below Sara’s waist. She taps with her fingertips, idly working out nervous energy she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t have. It’s not meant to communicate anything, but Sara reads it like a signal: she bends down and kisses Amaya again. This one has more purpose. There’s hunger in the way Sara’s mouth presses against her, in the way she flicks her tongue against Amaya’s lower lip. There’s an answer in the way Amaya goes soft and pliant underneath her, allowing it. 

Sara sighs into Amaya’s mouth, kissing sweet and deliberate in a way that’s new for both of them. There’s no efficiency, here. No rush to the finish line, no race to take care of their needs before the team needs them. There’s only the feel of Sara’s mouth and the slow fluttering in Amaya’s chest as she allows herself to appreciate it. She kisses back, unhurried, and is rewarded with the feel of a soft sigh from the back of Sara’s throat. She swallows it, lets her lips part so that she can kiss - be kissed - more deeply. 

They part, and for once, neither of them is breathless. But Sara’s pupils are wide and dark, and Amaya feels her blood beginning to heat. 

Amaya reaches up and combs her fingers through Sara’s hair. It’s soft, snarled into endless tangles from the wind, and Amaya lets her fingers slide around them, scratching at Sara’s scalp. Sara leans in, brow furrowing and for a moment Amaya can’t quite read her expression, can’t tell if she should keep going. Then Sara sighs, her lips parting just a little, and she shivers with her whole body. 

“That’s not fair,” Sara says, but her voice is breathless and she’s grinning bright-eyed at Amaya. 

“Isn’t it?” Amaya sing-songs. This part is familiar. The push-pull, not too far off from the rhythm they set when they’re doing weapons drills together. 

Sara leans in, crowding Amaya’s space until she leans backward, falling away from Sara and onto the bed. Sara follows, half-guiding, half-shoving Amaya until she’s lying on the bed and there’s enough space for Sara to join her. They lay side-by-side, bodies facing, and Amaya tries not to think too deeply about how _light_ this makes her feel. 

Sara kisses her again. 

Amaya responds, eagerly, as Sara’s tongue slides between her lips and then flicks out. She sighs as Sara bites at her lower lip, at the suggestion of things to come, a memory of all of the places Sara’s tongue has explored. Amaya feels her arousal begin to settle between her legs, heat and the first sparks of pleasure tickling the edges of her awareness. Her hips arch towards Sara instinctively and Sara meets her, wrapping her feet around Amaya’s calf to keep her close.

She sighs at the feeling and Sara makes a noise in the back of her throat and it’s something competitive, something hungry. All of it draws an answering response from Amaya’s body. She’s growing increasingly aware of her breasts, of the insides of her thighs and the liquid, heavy feeling between them. It’s almost decadent, allowing herself to feel all of that without immediately acting, without needing to quell the urge and move on, or to take advantage of the opportunity while it presents itself. 

Time passes. Amaya doesn’t know how much, but she knows that her lips go from sensitive and eager to kiss-swollen, that her body begins to respond more fully to each of Sara’s kisses. They’re tangled together more closely; Sara’s pelvis pressed tight against Amaya’s thigh, her legs wrapped so that every movement of her hips grinds Sara down against the muscle there. One of Amaya’s hands has found its way to Sara’s scalp and whenever she flexes her fingers she’s rewarded with a sigh and a corresponding twitch of Sara’s hips. Sara’s got an arm wrapped around Amaya’s back, and with her next kiss she pulls Amaya close, pressing their chests together. 

Amaya’s not wearing many layers - a tank top over shorts - and the sudden contact against her breasts makes her groan, her body’s response suddenly shifting from indolence to immediacy. 

Sara’s mouth moves from Amaya’s mouth to her jaw, and she kisses a path upwards until she settles behind Amaya’s ear. Her skin is sensitive there and Sara hums into it, suckling gently until Amaya sighs again, her body shifting and bumping against Sara’s own. Her hips don’t have any purchase, but she bucks them into empty space, arches her chest against Sara’s front and wriggles. Her heart is suddenly racing, her pulse loud in her ears and throbbing between her thighs. 

Sara shifts her hips slightly, and suddenly there’s pressure between Amaya’s legs and she realizes that it’s Sara’s thigh, nestled up against her groin. They’re straddling each other’s legs, now, and neither of them are wearing full trousers so it’s bare thigh pressing up against the crotch of Amaya’s shorts. Somehow that affects her even more. Sara sighs, rocks her hips forward, and the movement presses her thigh up against Amaya’s center, just enough pressure that Amaya bucks down against it reflexively. 

There’s a groan against her shoulder - Sara - and then another movement of Sara’s hips and for a few moments, they rut against each other. She can feel the heat of Sara’s cunt through her shorts, humid against her thigh. There’s a force to her movements that gives her away, showing desire that mirrors Amaya’s own. Amaya feels like she’s aching, her cunt eager to be filled, to be touched, throbbing its insistence more with every movement they make together. 

Rutting is good, but it’s nowhere near enough - for either of them, judging by the edge of frustration in Sara’s voice, the increasing urgency of her movements. They need more, and Amaya’s halfway to reaching for the button of Sara’s shorts before she realizes what they’re doing. They’re no longer just kissing, they’re necking and heading towards the rest of it, and it’s different than what they’ve done before. There are no parameters, no clear boundaries, no sense of where feelings end and physicality begins.

“We should talk about this,” Amaya gasps. “Right?”

Sara looks up. She’s wide eyed, lips swollen and cheeks pink and god, Amaya wants nothing more than to ravish her. “Yeah,” she says, through a long sigh. “Yeah, probably.” 

Amaya shifts, and Sara whimpers, rocks her hips against Amaya’s thigh instinctively. It’s beautiful, and much, much more interesting than talking. “We could also talk later?” she says. 

Amaya swallows. “Like after we -“

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sara says, barely a word. “After that.” 

Amaya’s hand finds its way in between her thigh and Sara’s hips, into the warm space there. She presses up, the heel of her hand an approximation of Sara’s clit and Sara cries out, arches, bites down against Amaya’s shoulder. “After is good,” Amaya says. 

Sara laughs against Amaya’s shoulder. She’s breathless now, responding as though she _needs _this. Amaya can’t bring herself to deny anything that Sara needs.__

__Sara undresses in a rush, unzipping her fly and trying to wriggle out of her shorts at the same time as Amaya reaches for her shirt. It works well until Sara surges forward in an effort to undress, her thigh flexing into Amaya’s centre. It’s accidental, but Amaya still feels it, responds with a loud moan that makes her drop Sara’s shirt and bite down on her own lip so hard it’s almost painful._ _

__Sara doesn’t speak, but her hand comes up to Amaya’s cheek, apologizing with a tender caress as she untangles her legs from Amaya’s. She rolls away, slipping out of her clothing in record time and reappearing naked._ _

__It hasn’t been very long, but it’s been long enough for Amaya to forget just how _good_ Sara looks underneath her clothes. She’s staring, she knows it, but today that doesn’t feel like such a bad thing. _ _

__The staring distracts her, though, means that she’s surprised when Sara reaches for the hem of her shirt and tugs it over her head, leaving Amaya in just her shorts._ _

__Amaya’s smart enough to recognize when she’s being provoked. When her eyes finally make it back to Sara’s face, Sara’s grinning at her like a dare. She’s lying on the bed - on _Amaya’s_ bed - like she belongs there, arms askew and legs spread wide. Her cunt is glistening, visibly wet, and when Amaya slides her fingers against it she finds Sara hot and slick. _ _

__Sara groans, bends her knees and sinks her hips toward Amaya’s touch. Amaya’s heart twists. She wants so many things - wants to touch Sara and make her feel good, wants to linger, wants to taste Sara on her tongue - and she just needs a moment to sort herself out._ _

__She moves her touch higher, finding Sara’s clit and tracing the outline of it. She’s rewarded with another moan, and then Sara’s hand looping around her wrist, guiding her downward. Two, then three fingers slide into Sara easily. Amaya fucks her with unhurried strokes, angles her fingers forward to find the softest, most sensitive part of her inner walls. She works until Sara’s gasping, until she’s rocking into Amaya’s touch, hips moving in time with her thrusts._ _

__Amaya can feel so much of Sara, like this. Can feel the flutters of her, the way that she clenches and relaxes, close-but-not-quite. Sara is restless, hands alternately fisting in the sheets and pawing at Amaya’s hands. Amaya doesn’t ask her what she needs; she’s too far gone to speak._ _

__Sara bites her lip, furrows her brow and whispers, “Come _on_ ,” angles her hips upward just a little bit. _ _

__Amaya takes a guess, and leans down to add in her mouth._ _

__The angle’s a bit tricky, at first - her hand bumps against her chin, and it's hard to find purchase but then she manages. She licks at Sara’s clit and Sara barely bites back a shout. It’s not long after that Sara cries out and goes still, her body arching upward, frozen. Amaya can _feel_ her orgasm, Sara’s inner walls pulsing around her fingers, squeezing over and over for what feels like ages. She waits until Sara’s body starts to relax, until she finally sinks back against the bed. _ _

__She shifts the angle of her wrist just slightly, moving to pull her fingers away, when Sara flexes and shudders and whimpers, clearly riding out a second climax on her hand._ _

__She’s _so pretty_ when she comes. Amaya has no idea why she didn’t notice sooner. _ _

__Amaya holds still, this time, keeps her hands motionless until Sara collapses against the bed and sighs at the ceiling. Her chest and cheeks are flushed bright pink, her skin glistening just a little, and _god_ Amaya wants her. _ _

__Sara’s slick is still on Amaya’s mouth, Amaya’s still slippery-fingered when Sara pulls her into a kiss. Sara’s kiss is lazy, a little sloppy as she kisses herself off of Amaya’s lips, kisses her chin, her jaw, her throat._ _

__For no good reason, Amaya’s heart does a flip._ _

__Her focus isn’t on anything but Sara’s mouth. She needs to know everything about it: the taste of it, the shape of her lower lip, the way her tongue feels sliding against her own. She doesn’t notice when Sara’s hands move, not until one is cupping her sex and sliding a fingertip between her lips and _goddamn_ , then she’s noticing. Amaya’s so wet that she can feel it, slick between her cunt and Sara’s fingertip, muting the feel of her touch. Sara’s fingers find her clit and the touch is gentle but Amaya’s so sensitive, so _worked up_ that she responds with her whole body. Her hips curl towards Sara’s touch, her head drops to Sara’s shoulder and it’s all she can do to hiss out the word, “ _Yes._ ”_ _

__“You’re so wet for me,” Sara whispers, a note of wonder in her voice._ _

__“ _Yes_ ,” Amaya replies, high-pitched and breathless and she doesn’t _care_ , all she can do is want. _ _

__“Turn over,” Sara says._ _

__Amaya rolls off of Sara and onto her back obligingly. Her thighs fall away from each other instinctively and a part of her thinks vaguely about not looking too eager but it doesn’t _matter_ , not when she wants this much. _ _

__Sara’s mouth is gentle - almost too gentle - against Amaya. She sets herself in the space between Amaya’s thighs, nuzzles in between her lips and when her tongue brushes up against Amaya’s clit she has to bite back a shout. She feels herself clench, feels Sara’s tongue dip down to tease at her entrance, before she loops it back upward and starts to work at Amaya’s clit in earnest. She’s amazing at this, at making Amaya feel good and at making her feel safe, like it’s okay to trust Sara with her cunt, like this._ _

__Sara licks at her until Amaya feels like she’s on fire, like her whole body is tied to the touch between her legs, like she’s rising up, her focus growing smaller and smaller. Amaya comes so hard that she sees stars, one hand tangled through Sara’s hair, the other holding her mouth, keeping herself from screaming._ _

__Sara works at her through her orgasm, through every last shudder, until Amaya is warm and soft and her limbs feel like they don’t quite work properly. She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t trust her tongue for talking, just yet._ _

__When Sara comes back up, her mouth is slick and she’s looking at Amaya with those warm, soft, eyes - the ones that prompt an answering warmth from Amaya. She smiles._ _

__Amaya smiles back. Rather, she tries to, but she’s still caught up in her own pleasure, and it comes out as a well-satisfied chuckle._ _

__Sara kisses Amaya’s nose, impulsively, wetly. “You’re cute,” she whispers._ _

__Amaya buries her face against Sara’s side to keep from beaming too obviously._ _

__Sara stays until Amaya feels like she’s come back to herself, until it no longer feels necessary to cuddle as close to each other’s bodies as possible._ _

__Amaya smiles, drags her fingertip across the slope of Sara’s collarbones, down the valley between her breasts. “We should probably have that talk,” she says._ _

__“Yeah,” Sara says. “I guess.”_ _

__She shifts a little bit on the bed, creating distance between them._ _

__“This keeps happening,” Amaya says._ _

__Sara nods. She doesn’t mention that it keeps happening, and every time it feels like _more._ She doesn’t mention that she kissed Amaya first, that bringing this into the territory between _working off steam_ and _love affair_ was her idea. “It does,” Sara says. “But it doesn’t have to be anything -“ _ _

__Sara pauses, and Amaya dives in before she can find a word. “Right,” she says._ _

__“Just working off steam,” Sara says, and this time her voice lilts up, half-questioning. It’s not. It wasn’t working off steam last night and it wasn’t today, and Sara’s eyes say that she knows it._ _

__“Exactly,” Amaya says. Something inside her twists, makes her feel almost sick, but that’s not important. “No big deal.”_ _

__“Cool,” Sara says. She rolls away, collecting her clothes in what seems like the same movement, halfway to the door in another. “Well, I’ll, um. I’ll see you around.”_ _

__“Right,” Amaya replies. Her eyes are burning, tears threatening._ _

__She doesn’t blink until after Sara’s gone, the door closed behind her._ _

__+_ _

__Amaya doesn’t know what Sara does with the rest of her afternoon. It’s not any of her business, she supposes. She knows that Sara’s not at dinner, and when Mick lights a bonfire around sunset, Sara’s nowhere to be seen._ _

__The boys retire early, leaving her by the fireside with Mick. She doesn’t think about how much nicer it was to sit here with Sara, doesn’t think about the night before or the way Sara’s touch made her feel warm all over._ _

__At least, she doesn’t think about it much._ _

__Mick offers her a beer and she accepts. Just one, just enough to feel a bit of heat in her stomach. It doesn’t make her intoxicated, by any means, but it helps a little with the ache that’s been behind her ribs since she last spoke to Sara._ _

__Mick takes his own beer - she’s sure it’s not his first, but she never can keep track of how many he’s had; the six-pack by his feet seems self-replenishing - and sits beside her. He feels oversized, next to her. It takes Amaya a few moments before she realizes that what she really means is that he’s not the same size as Sara. But he’s solid and patient beside her, staring into the fire, and Mick’s a lot of things but he’s always been honest with her._ _

__Amaya needs honesty, right now._ _

__They sit in silence, and after a long bout - longer than is perhaps polite - he says, “You seem upset.”_ _

__Amaya shrugs. _Upset_ probably is the correct word, but she’s not sure she wants to talk about it. Perhaps it’s not that - perhaps she’s still figuring out how to talk about it, to deal with the emotion sitting like a brick in the pit of her stomach. “I’m fine,” she finally replies. _ _

__Mick is silent for a long while. Then: “How’s Blondie? I haven’t seen her much today.”_ _

__It’s not even her real name, but just hearing the nickname makes Amaya irritated. “How should I know?” she says. “I’m not her keeper.”_ _

__Mick laughs, a gravelly rumble, but he doesn’t say anything. Amaya’s grateful for that. She takes a long sip of her beer, then another, letting herself lean into the warmth of the alcohol before she speaks. Her voice is barely a whisper against Mick’s side, but she says it: “I think I have feelings for Sara.”_ _

__Mick chuckles again, but more gently. He lifts his arm up and slings it heavily around Amaya’s shoulders, draws her into his side. “Of course you do,” he says._ _

__Amaya leans into him, suddenly glad for the darkness and the way it hides what she’s sure is the embarrassment on her face. Embarrassment at the fact that she’s doing this again, falling for someone on her team in a way that flies in the face of professionalism. Embarrassment because, once again, everyone else seems to know it before Amaya._ _

__“What do you mean by that?” she finally asks._ _

__Mick shrugs. “Look, I make a point of making other people’s feelings none of my business. Keeps things simple.” He clears his throat, takes another swig of his beer. “But if I were going to notice anything, it might be that you both seem to like each other an awful lot.”_ _

__Amaya takes a moment, allows that sentence to sink in. She’s already worrying at the label around the neck of her bottle, and she stays silent while she works at it with the edge of her thumb, peeling it all the way off. "For someone who supposedly likes me, she's being an ass."_ _

__Mick shrugs again. "Not my problem," he says. "But for what it's worth, I hope you figure it out."_ _

__"Thank you," she whispers._ _

__Mick waits to speak until Amaya's finished her beer - one last sip, hand-warmed and a little too bitter. "It's what friends are for, kid."_ _

__Amaya lets those words curl around her, warming her just a little. She and Sara might not be anything, but she's still got a team. _Friends._ That's not nothing. _ _

__She sits with Mick, mostly in silence, until the fire is nothing but embers. If she's putting off going to bed, avoiding anyone who may or may not be in her cabin, Mick does her the courtesy of pretending that he doesn't notice._ _

__Mick tosses water onto the embers, killing the fire for good, and Amaya feels the first stirrings of anxiety in her belly. She doesn't want to go back; doesn't want to face the presence or absence of Sara and right now she can't decide which she'd prefer. For a brief, nervous moment she thinks about asking if she can stay with Mick. But then she thinks about Nathaniel one room away, and the unpleasantness of that outweighs her nerves over Sara._ _

__She's a warrior; she can handle one woman._ _

__When she makes it to the cabin, Sara's door is closed and the cabin is silent. Presumably, that means Sara is present, but if she is, there's no indication that she's awake. Amaya doesn't think about how that makes her feel. She tries not to dwell on whether the mix of emotion in her belly is mostly relief or mostly disappointment._ _

__She goes to bed not thinking about it, and doesn't think about it until well after she falls asleep._ _


	4. just call me your lover, don’t call me your friend

Amaya wakes up with the sun. She's tired from the night before, and it takes her a few moments of blinking sleep from her eyes before she's ready to face the day. She's not usually someone who remembers dreams, but this morning she wakes with vivid memories of blonde hair in the sunlight and the ghost of Sara's mouth on her skin. It takes longer than it should for the events of yesterday - not just the pleasant ones - start to come back to her. 

Amaya can hear movement: Sara in the kitchen. She takes a breath, steels herself.

Sara's in the kitchen and she's _cooking_. Her hair's tucked into a bun at the top of her head, a few stray hairs falling around her temples and nape, catching the morning sun. She's wearing an outfit that mirrors Amaya's own: soft plaid shorts and a slightly-oversized t-shirt. From where Amaya's standing, in her bedroom doorway, everything feels inviting. Everything feels like it did yesterday afternoon, dreamy and soft and like it would be fine for Amaya to kiss the back of Sara's shoulder and slide her hands up the hem of her shirt, whisper _good morning_ into her ear. 

Amaya doesn't. From her post at the doorway, she says, "Hey." 

Sara responds with a shrug, a low noise that may or may not be acknowledgement. Amaya can't see what she's making, but she's got something going on the stove, and it smells of salt-fat-delicious. She walks around to the kitchen island, leans over it so that she can see some of Sara's face. She cranes her neck, looking past Sara's body to the stove. "Can I help with anything?" 

Sara shrugs. "I'm fine," she says. "Coffee's on the table, if you want." 

In many ways, this morning feels exactly like all the other mornings they've had together. But when Amaya goes to pour her coffee and curl up on the couch, Sara doesn't speak to her. She doesn't ask how many eggs Amaya would like, doesn't make conversation. 

Amaya drinks her coffee in silence. Sara cooks breakfast, the pop and sizzle of her frying pan the only sounds punctuating the morning. 

Amaya fetches her book, finishes her first cup of coffee in silence that mirrors Sara's own. She's only half-reading, the rest of her trying not to be upset. It's not a bad thing that Sara's making breakfast but it feels like it is, feels like Sara's making breakfast and avoiding her at the same time. 

There's a soft clatter from the kitchen; the sound of a frying pan hitting the kitchen sink, the water running. Sara makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, says, "There's food for you, if you want." 

Breakfast is this beautiful fry-up, potatoes and onions and hot peppers with two eggs on the side, just the way Amaya likes them. Amaya's heart does something funny, a flip that she feels in her belly. She takes her plate, goes to sit at the kitchen table. 

Ordinarily, Sara would join her; at least eating on the couch nearby, making small talk. Today she stands, wolfs down her meal like a soldier. She's already finished and starting on the dishes before Amaya's had time to start eating and it just doesn't feel _right_ , doesn't feel like they're anything close to what they were the day before. 

Amaya's stomach feels too full of emotion for her to eat much; anger and hurt congealing next to the eggs. She tries to settle her emotions, tries to let them go as a warrior should, but then Sara's done with breakfast and about to disappear into her room and she just _can't._ "Sara," she says. It comes out funny, halfway between pleading and admonishing. 

"What?" Sara asks, her voice carefully neutral. She's not looking at Amaya's face; instead settling her gaze somewhere on the wall above Amaya's head. 

Amaya knows what. They both do, but it's not fair that Amaya has to be the one to put it into words, not when _Sara_ is the one acting weird about everything. "Do you have to be such a jerk?" she asks. 

It's not the right thing to say, but it's close enough; the closest Amaya can get right now. Sara drops her eyes, looks sideways at Amaya guiltily. "Look, I'm just trying to -" she pauses, runs a hand across the top of her head as if to run it through her hair, grabs her bun and squeezes. 

She's silent for long enough that Amaya doesn't think she'll finish, and it has the effect of making Amaya even angrier. "Trying to _what_ , Sara? You haven't been able to look me in the eye since yesterday, what am I supposed to think?" 

Sara looks away. Her expression is hesitant, full of a dozen almost-emotions that Amaya can't interpret. "Think whatever you like," Sara says. "I have to go." 

She grabs her sweater from the doorway, throws it overtop of her pyjamas, and leaves. 

 

Amaya half-expects Sara to return. She's not sure where Sara would even _go,_ dressed as she is. She's not wearing anything but her pyjamas, and once the heat of the day starts coming up, that sweater will be too warm. She should, by all rights, at least come back to change. 

Sara doesn't. 

Amaya finishes her breakfast, washes the dishes and finishes cleaning the kitchen. She's still angry, and it comes out in her dishwashing - she nearly breaks a coffee cup, has to stand over the sink and breathe for a few moments to let the feeling pass. It's _fine._ Sara can be an ass and storm off if she wants to. It's none of Amaya's business. 

She reads until she finishes _Fellowship of the Rings_. The ending is thrilling enough, she supposes, but her heart's too full for her to really appreciate it. She thinks about going to Ray's cabin, asking for the next book in the series, but she's too upset to do even that. She sort of hates Sara for it. 

She's not going to go look for Sara. She's not. But somehow she ends up showered and dressed and starting toward the door. 

 

Sara's not in any of the obvious places along the beach. She's not on the trails further away; up the ridge and toward the part of the island that's closer to desert. It takes Amaya longer than it should to think of looking on the Waverider, but once she does, it seems obvious: where would a captain be, if not her ship?

 

The ship feels different without people in it. It makes Amaya a little nervous, as she puts her hand up to the door sensor, but it works as it always has, the gentle hiss of the hydraulics familiar. When she enters, the cargo hold is silent. It unsettles her, the hollowness of the ship when it's not filled with the rest of the team. "Gideon?" she asks. 

"Hello, Miss Jiwe. Welcome back aboard," Gideon says, her voice all around her. She's turned down her volume, speaking more softly to match the stillness of the ship. Not for the first time, Amaya marvels at the way a machine can feel so human. 

"I'm looking for Sara." 

There's a change in Gideon's tone, and she sounds almost pleased when she replies. "She's in the library. Shall I let her know that you've arrived?" 

"No, Gideon. That's alright." 

Amaya wanders through the hallways of the Waverider. It feels smaller, after the wide open skies of the last few days, but she's surprised at how much it still feels like home to be back on the ship. She doesn't stop in any of the berths. She heads right for the heart of the ship, for Sara. 

She hears Sara in the library before she reaches her; Sara's voice soft, with Gideon's clear intonation matching her in volume. She can't quite make out what they're talking about, but Sara looks vaguely embarrassed when Amaya opens the door. It feels as though she's interrupting something private. 

"Sara," Amaya says.   
Sara's changed, and maybe showered: she's wearing proper clothing under the sweater she left in this morning, and she no longer looks bleary-eyed and morning-rough. "Hey," Sara says. Her voice is soft in a way that Amaya doesn't trust herself to read. “I, um. Didn’t want Gideon to get lonely.” 

“I’m mad at you,” Amaya says.

Sara shrugs, “That’s fair.” 

“You were acting like an ass, before.” 

Sara balks a little at the accusation. Her ears go red, and Amaya can't quite tell if she's embarrassed or getting angry herself. She's quiet for a long while before she speaks, and this time, Amaya waits for her reply. “I was,” Sara says. “I’m sorry, for what that’s worth.” 

It takes the fight out of Amaya, a little bit. She's still hurting, still _confused_ , but she can't quite continue arguing anymore. She sits, across from Sara on the floor. They've both got their backs to opposite walls, the room just small enough that Amaya's feet could touch the ends of Sara's, if she were to stretch. 

Amaya sighs. "So, how's Gideon?" Sara gets confused, frowns. "Since you were keeping her company." 

Sara stammers for a moment before Gideon chimes in. "I've been doing quite well. I've been performing several long-needed maintenance functions on the time drive that should have the ship running at optimal efficiency. And may I say, Ms. Jiwe - it's lovely to have someone ask after these sorts of things." 

By the time Gideon's finished, Sara's looking at Amaya with more than a little embarrassment. For Sara, that's tantamount to an admission of guilt. "I don't -" Sara begins, before cutting herself off, sighing. She draws her legs towards herself, shifting her weight to cross them underneath her. "I don't have the greatest track record when it comes to feelings." 

Amaya's never seen Sara look small, before. She's always seemed larger-than-life, whirling through combat, sorting things out with the team, avoiding disaster by the slimmest possible margin. But sitting like this, curled in on herself, she seems almost fragile. "I don't either," Amaya says. 

"I shouldn't have hurt you," Sara whispers. She's looking at the ground, worrying at a stray thread at the cuff of her jeans. 

"No, you shouldn't have." Amaya's words are clear but her tone is soft. Her heart feels like it's aching with emotion. Everything about this is difficult, _complicated_ , but all she wants is to be nearer to Sara. 

Sara glances up, tries to smile at Amaya but her eyes are watery, brimming-over with tears that she's too stubborn to shed. Something in Amaya twists at the sight of her, makes her get up and cross the room to sit shoulder-to-shoulder beside Sara. 

Sara lets out a long, shuddering sigh and leans into Amaya's side. Her voice breaks a little as she whispers, "I'm not supposed to like you."

Amaya's heart is racing as she replies, "What are you planning to do about it?" 

Sara shakes her head, for a moment, before turning toward Amaya and kissing her. Her mouth is soft, so tender and so sweet and Amaya can't help but respond, kissing back with all of her emotion, all of her desire. "I don't know," Sara whispers, breathless against Amaya's mouth. 

Amaya doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to deal with the way that she _wants_ this except to press onward. "Please, just -" she begins, stalls. 

Amaya can't figure out how to put it into words, not with Sara this near. She can feel the sting of tears behind her own eyes, threatening but not falling. "Okay," Sara whispers. "Yeah, okay." 

Their next kiss feels like falling. Sara's mouth is open and soft and she's kissing Amaya with honesty, a little messy around the edges as she crashes against Amaya's lips. Amaya's whole heart leaps at it, at the smell and taste and feel of Sara beside her. Sara's hand comes up to grip the back of Amaya's head. She pulls Amaya close, nails dragging against Amaya's scalp and Amaya can't help but oblige. 

She hums into Sara's mouth, allowing herself to be pulled close and clutching back, gripping Sara's shoulders. They're seated next to each other and it's not quite the right positioning to get any nearer than they are. Sara bites at Amaya's lip, shifts her weight and suddenly Amaya's leaning back, being eased onto the floor. Sara's got a thigh between Amaya's legs and her body is pressed to Amaya's side, and they haven't stopped kissing each other for even a moment. 

They break apart to breathe, just for a few seconds. Amaya feels like she's vibrating, every part of her full of restless energy because of all the ways that this feels _different_ , the tenderness that Amaya doesn't quite know how to handle. Sara's looking down at her with softness in her eyes, and when she smiles, Amaya feels herself smile in return. "Hey," Sara half-whispers. 

Amaya reaches up, strokes at Sara's temple and tucks a few stray hairs back behind her ear. "You," Amaya whispers in return. 

Sara closes the space between them, her tongue slipping into Amaya's mouth. She feels like she could kiss Sara for hours. She feels like she could touch Sara for hours, and as her hands start roaming Sara leans into it, catlike. Sara bites at Amaya's lower lip when her hands find the hem of her shirt. When Amaya's hands cup Sara through her bra she hisses against Amaya's mouth, back swaying into her touch. It makes Amaya feel powerful, knowing that she's someone who can make Sara Lance react like this, soft and pliant and guileless. 

Sara responds to Amaya's touch in kind, sliding the hand resting against Amaya's hip to the space between her legs, cupping her through her shorts. There's not enough contact for anything meaningful, but the touch is a reminder of things to come, of all the ways Sara's touched her before, and Amaya sighs at the memory, angles her hips toward the pressure of Sara's palm. 

Desire blooms between her thighs, suddenly insistent and fuelled by the feeling of Sara's body under her hands, Sara's mouth against her own. "We should," Sara murmurs, in between kisses, barely an attempt at a sentence. "Not in the library." 

It takes Amaya longer than it should to process the sentence, to couple that with the setting and the fact that she's _on the library floor_. "Right," Amaya whispers. 

Sara moves to get up, but Amaya tugs her back down. She feels greedy, her whole body, her whole _heart_ aching to kiss Sara just a little longer. Sara chuckles, allows herself to be directed, allows herself to be kissed again and again, before she says, "We should -"

"- go somewhere?" Amaya half-moans. 

Sara nods. She's smiling, wild-eyed, the way she does in the heat of battle, as she rolls off of Amaya and offers her hand. 

They make it to the first bulkhead outside the library before they're kissing again. 

It's not Amaya's fault. 

Sara's the one who looks at her sidelong, eyes roaming across Amaya's body with intention behind them. Sara's the one who pulls Amaya close by her wrist, who flips them around and backs Amaya up against the bulkhead. 

Amaya's the one to continue it, clutching Sara close and wrapping one of her legs around Sara's hips, pulling her in close. There's an angle they hit, just for a moment, with Sara's thigh pressed tight against the inseam of Amaya's shorts and it feels so good that she actually whines with desire. 

They make it a few feet further, walking and kissing and the next time they pause it's Amaya's doing. Sara looks so _pretty_ , is all, her mouth kissed pink and her eyes dark and Amaya has the sudden, irresistible urge to touch her. Specifically, she wants to kiss the hint of a smile away from her mouth, to pin her against the wall by her shoulders and feel the softness and angles of Sara's body. 

She runs her hands up the plane of Sara's abdomen, finds her breasts and clutches at them. Amaya's rewarded with a sigh, with Sara leaning toward her chest-first in delight. Amaya fumbles at Sara's back, her fingers graceless and clumsy with desire but Sara doesn't seem to mind at all. She finds the clasp of Sara's bra after what feels like ages, pinches and twists and then Sara's bra band goes slack. There's space then, for Amaya's hand to slip beneath it and palm at Sara's breasts. She learns the curve of them, lifts, caresses with touch that's clumsy and rough but Sara sighs into it anyway. 

She brushes her thumbs across the points of Sara's nipples and Sara responds with a groan, drops her head to bite at Amaya's shoulder. It feels _so good_ , and suddenly the skin of Amaya's shoulder feels like it's directly connected to her groin, shivers running all the way down her spine and ending right between her thighs. 

The nearest berth is Sara's. They're so close to the door that Sara can reach over and palm the lock, but it still feels like miles away. It takes Sara tugging at the front of her shirt to break through the fog of her desire, to keep her from unbuttoning Sara's jeans and taking her right there. "Bed," Sara groans, jerks her head to the side. 

"Right," Amaya mumbles in reply. 

It's an effort to let her hands leave Sara's breasts, to settle for wrapping around Sara's waist, her wrist, and being led into her bunk. 

She doesn't notice a single thing about Sara's berth except the bed, the fact that it's there and Sara's beautiful and shoving her down against it. She's _dreamy_ and Amaya's so hot for this that she doesn't care about anything but enjoying this while it lasts. 

Amaya's barely landed on her back before Sara's already tearing at her shorts, fumbling with the fly. Her hands are clumsy, so graceless that she nearly tears the button right off, and somehow that makes Amaya's body sing. All she can think about is desire, about finding ways to get herself _touched._ Sara manages Amaya's shorts, works her hands below the waistband and tugs them off with her underwear in one movement. Amaya feels herself clench with anticipation, desire flooding her cunt. She wants this, wants Sara to fill her up with her fingers until Amaya forgets about everything but _that._

They're both grinning as Sara crawls onto the bed, urging Amaya higher up, closer to the top of the mattress. When Amaya goes too slowly, Sara helps her, half-lifting Amaya onto the bed. She tugs at Amaya's shirt, lifts the hem and suddenly Amaya's naked, spread out and waiting for Sara. 

Sara leans back, sitting up on her heels and just _looking_. She's got a half-smile on her face, the one she always has when they're intimate together, but something is different today. There's a softness around her eyes, reverence in the way she looks at Amaya. 

Sara's hand comes up, almost absently, and _oh_ , when she touches Amaya's breast it feels so tender that Amaya can hardly stand it. She leans in and rubs her face against Amaya's chest, nuzzling the skin of her breasts before she starts to kiss at her, kisses soon giving way to the gentle scrape of her teeth and slow, caressing touches. All of it feels _different_ , gentler and more caring than anything they've ever been to each other before, and it sets Amaya's body on fire in a whole different way. She feels it under her skin, in the slick between her legs that already feels like it's sliding down her thighs, overheated and sweet every time she presses her thighs together. But she also feels it in her heart, in the feeling that won't stop fluttering in her belly, her chest, her throat, the feeling that she shouldn't be having over Sara, and somehow that makes this even sweeter. 

Sara reaches down, fingertips grazing against the edge of her hip, slowly traveling along the line of her groin. Amaya's hips cant upward, trying to meet her touch, and there's a long moment of _maybe_ before Sara pulls her hand away. 

She props herself up onto her forearms, no longer touching, but instead looking right into Amaya's eyes. That softness is still in her gaze and it's so gentle, so _caring_ that Amaya almost doesn't know what to do. "I, um. I'd like to fuck you," Sara says. "If that's alright." 

She's watching Amaya expectantly, and it takes her longer than it should to realize that Sara's actually _asking_ , waiting for a reply. Amaya suddenly feels like she can't speak, her heart too full of emotion and her body too full of desire and she has to breathe for a while before she can even manage a sigh, a whispered, "Yes, _please._ " 

Sara lights up, her smile turning wicked as she settles herself between Amaya's legs. Her fingertips dig into the flesh of Amaya's thighs, spreading them apart. There's something about being exposed for Sara like this that makes it even _better_ , the heat of Sara's gaze and the air in the room cool against her cunt, all of it making her shudder in anticipation. 

Sara's tongue slides in between the folds of Amaya's cunt like it belongs there. Her touch is warm and dextrous as she licks her way up from Amaya's entrance to her clit. Amaya's already so eager, everything throbbing and oversensitive, that when Sara's tongue brushes across her clit she clutches the sheets and shouts. 

Sara hums against her cunt, dipping her tongue lower and god - _god_ her tongue is inside Amaya and she doesn't know what to do with the feeling of it, torn between all the things she feels and all the things she needs to feel _more._ Her hips move without her permission, rocking down against Sara's tongue, silently begging. It's so needy, so _transparent_ that Amaya would almost be embarrassed, if it weren't for the fact that Sara replaces her tongue with her fingers almost immediately. 

Amaya doesn't know how many; she just knows that she feels _full_ , stretched out in the best possible way. Sara fucks her slow and beautiful, fingers dragging against Amaya's inner walls at a pace that's almost agony. Amaya's just so _close_ , her whole self hanging on the edge, _almost, almost_ there. She doesn't know what she's saying, just knows that she's making sounds and they're pleading, ragged enough that her throat feels raw with them. Sara leans in, finds space above the fingers she's got in Amaya's cunt and starts using her tongue. It's _perfect_ , and Amaya only has a few moments to realize what she's feeling before everything goes white. 

When she comes, it's loud: a ragged moan and a shout and then her voice humming with every shudder, every twitch that Sara draws from her cunt. There's nobody to hear but Gideon, and more to the point, she doesn't care. 

Sara brings her down gently, licking at her until Amaya's moans turn to sighs and the tension from her body is gone. She makes her way up Amaya's body, sloppy-wet kisses and caresses, spreading Amaya's slick all over her. 

It shouldn't be romantic. It shouldn't make Amaya's heart leap the way that it does. 

Sara tucks herself against Amaya's side, burying her face in the curve of Amaya's shoulder. Her chin is wet against Amaya's skin, which means Amaya can feel it when she whispers, "You taste so good. Did you know that?"

Amaya's cheeks grow hot, and suddenly she's glad for Sara cuddling into her side. She's not sure that she's brave enough to look at her right now. She is brave enough to whisper, "Thank you," against the top of Sara's head. 

Sara nuzzles closer in reply. She stays there, wrapped around Amaya, until the glow of her climax fades just enough that she can move her fingers, her toes. "You taste amazing and you're beautiful," Sara half-mumbles. 

She's hiding it against Amaya's skin, but Amaya still hears it, and her heart does a flip. She turns in Sara's arms, until they're both on their sides and nose-to-nose, cradling each other. "You," Amaya whispers, her mouth brushing against Sara's lips. "You're beautiful." 

Sara inhales slowly, exhales in a shuddery way that makes Amaya want to hold her even closer. She shifts her weight and Sara allows herself to be rolled onto her back, lets Amaya climb on top of her and straddle her hips. Sara's still fully clothed, and suddenly that's a _problem,_ especially compared with Amaya's own nakedness. 

Amaya slides Sara's t-shirt upward, exposing her stomach, the swell of her breasts and her bra hanging unclasped around them, useless. Sara arches into her touch, presses her breasts into Amaya's hands. It's _lovely_ but not what Amaya wants, not quite right. "I want to see you," she whispers. 

She's rewarded by Sara's cheeks flushing pink. She sits up, suddenly face to face with Amaya's breasts as she wrestles out of her clothes. When she settles back onto the bed, she's naked from the waist up and Amaya's mouth goes dry at the sight of her. Sara's still so _pretty,_ a study in strength and softness that Amaya's sure she could look at forever. 

Sara takes Amaya's hands in her own, and moves them to cover her breasts. Amaya can't help but grin. Her eagerness is flattering, and it makes Amaya bold enough to lean in and work at Sara's breasts with her mouth. Sara responds with enthusiasm, sighing and caressing Amaya's head as she leaves sharp, nipping kisses across Sara's breasts. She works until Sara's breasts are covered in dozens of small bruises, until Sara is writhing underneath her hips. 

Amaya takes that as her signal to move lower, kissing softly at Sara's stomach, her hipbones. She uses her hands to unbutton Sara's jeans as she moves, sliding jeans and underwear as far as she can down Sara's thighs. Eventually, she brings herself to move away, just long enough that Sara can kick her way out of the rest of her clothes. 

When Sara returns, she arranges herself spread out on the bed, Amaya between her legs, down at her knees. She takes her time moving upward, kissing at Sara's calves, the insides of her thighs. She leaves her mouth gentle, alternating soft kisses and feather-light touches across Sara's skin, until Sara's thighs are shaking. She settles herself in between Sara's thighs, within kissing distance of her cunt, and pauses. Amaya allows herself a moment to look up at Sara's body under tension, to take in the way that Sara's waiting breathlessly for touch. She's never felt so powerful, so important, before. 

Sara whimpers, the softest little plea in the back of her throat and Amaya leans forward the barest amount, exhales and presses a kiss to Sara's center, above her clit. Her tongue wriggles further inside, tasting coarse hair and then heavy, liquid-salty slickness and _oh_ , there's just so much of it. She nuzzles her way closer, burying her chin against Sara's entrance and _fuck_ , she's just so _wet_ , her whole cunt slippery and responsive.

When Amaya finally laps at Sara's clit, she shouts. Her hands come up to clutch at Amaya's head, her abdominal muscles flexing as her shoulders rise off the bed, just for an instant. Amaya can't see her, but she can feel the effort of Sara relaxing, the way the sheets on the bed bunch around her as Sara fists her hands into them. She flicks her tongue forward again and is rewarded with a second cry, one that ends in a ragged whimper and a whispered, " _Yes._ " 

She laps at Sara's clit in unhurried strokes. It's not that she doesn't want Sara to feel good - she does, wants nothing more than for Sara's orgasm to take her, to overwhelm her the way Amaya's felt. But it just feels so nice to be here, to taste Sara in this way and feel her respond, feel all the ways that Amaya can please her. 

She takes her time until the sounds from Sara above her have reached a peak, until Sara is keening and half-rocking against Amaya's face, every whimper made of soft, pleading nonsense. Amaya increases her pace, working Sara with her tongue in earnest until she can see-feel-taste the tension in her, can sense the moment when Sara is at the edge of her climax. 

When Sara finally orgasms, it's _big_. Her whole body goes still and silent, her back arched, and then she's crying out and Amaya's face is suddenly wet down past her chin, Sara's arousal coming in a rush as Amaya feels her shudder, over and over again. Amaya has never felt quite so proud, so _good_ , before. 

Amaya reaches up, her palm on Sara's belly, and Sara takes her hand. She laces their fingers together and squeezes, eyes fluttering closed as she breathes herself back down to earth. Amaya holds on. 

The bedclothes are already damp underneath Sara; Amaya doesn't feel any guilt in wiping her chin on them before she moves up the bed to hold Sara. Sara turns toward her, wraps her arms around Amaya's waist and rests her head on Amaya's chest, cuddling close. She's so soft, like this. Amaya doesn't think she's ever seen Sara this open and relaxed, before. It feels important that she's allowed to be here. 

She strokes at Sara's hair, and Sara responds by nuzzling closer. "Just in case you were wondering," Amaya whispers. "That was really lovely." 

Sara smiles, buries her face against Amaya's breasts as if to hide. Amaya's heart does a flip at the sight of her. It's too much; maybe it's fine if they never do this again. Amaya's not sure she could handle everything that it makes her feel. 

Gradually, Sara recovers enough to kiss at Amaya's breasts, to whisper. "I like doing that with you." 

"Likewise," Amaya says, and Sara laughs, a proper one that starts in her belly and ends in Sara looking at her, bright-eyed and tender. Suddenly all of this feels a lot easier. 

"So," Sara says, the barest hint of a question in her voice. 

"So." 

"We could talk about things," Sara says. Her expression is soft, hard for Amaya to read, but she almost looks hopeful. "If you want." 

Amaya nods. She's still stroking Sara's hair, working out tangles that are largely Amaya's fault, and she focuses on the feel of that to ground her as she says, "So, you like me."

"Yeah," Sara says. She leans into Amaya's touch, and Amaya realizes that there are tears in Sara's eyes, once again. "Yeah, I think I do." 

"As a friend?" Amaya asks, heart in her throat. 

Sara laughs. "I'm pretty sure I like, _like you,_ like you." 

Amaya shakes her head. The future is full of a lot of amazing inventions, but in parallel people seem to have invented the _stupidest_ ways of not saying what they really mean. She's sick of it. "God, Sara, I just -" she sighs, looks skyward. "It _feels_ like you're courting me. I want you to be courting me. Can we just be that?"

Sara looks down, spends a long time staring at her hand, pressed flat against Amaya's ribs. "Like girlfriends?"

Amaya's heart leaps. "I don't care what you call it, I just need to know what you _want_ from me," she says. 

"I want that," Sara whispers. Her voice is rough and she's looking at Amaya like she means it, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. Amaya's never felt this particular mixture of exasperation and desire quite so keenly before. "I want you."

Amaya drags Sara into a kiss, searing and sated and full of everything she's been trying not to feel. "Good," she whispers into Sara's mouth. "Me, too." 

When they're done kissing, when Amaya's had her fill of the taste of Sara's mouth, they both break apart smiling. "So this is like -" Sara begins, stops, searching for the world. 

Amaya laughs. Her heart is suddenly feeling full, light for the first time in days. "Are you trying to ask me if we're going steady?" she asks. 

Sara makes a face. “Nobody says _going steady_.”

“I do,” Amaya says and watches with delight as the corners of Sara’s eyes fold into a smile. 

“Nobody else says it,” Sara counters. 

“So, what should we call it, then?” 

Sara shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m sleeping with anyone else,” she says, eyes firmly directed toward the ceiling. “What about you? Are you -“

“One of you is _plenty_ for me to deal with,” Amaya says. It’s not quite honest, not quite the depth of what she feels, but it still makes Sara’s lips curl, as if she’s trying to hold back a smile. 

“Tell people that, then,” Sara says. "If they ask."

Amaya laughs, and pulls Sara close. "Alright," she says. "Alright."


End file.
